


Sebastian Moran, Interrupted

by silversurfer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Atypical Sebastian, F/M, M/M, Multi, Post-Season Three, Slash, Taking liberties with villains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:39:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silversurfer/pseuds/silversurfer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He dragged a hand down his face, down a beard he didn’t have, and stated slowly, purposely “I think our mistake, brother mine, might’ve been believing Moriarty is the dangerous one.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sebastian Moran, Interrupted

When Mycroft arrived that day, swinging his umbrella and still bearing his veritable paunch, it was very much as if Sherlock’s four-minute exile had never happened. That rosy, cynical, smiling way Mycroft bore everything forth made John’s blood boil, but he could see it was the Holmsian way, a mantle Sherlock picked up the moment his brother walked into the room and dropped again upon his departure.

Of course, Sherlock thought he changed nothing about himself, ever. After a week of knowing the man, he had needed no trial and error to “deduce” that humoring Sherlock was the most sustainable method. Still, the ever-political way they rounded on each other explained much: why neither would understand the street brawl Sherlock unwittingly provoked in John. Why neither ever had a romantic companion. Why no Holmes could ever be a lover, a doctor, a soldier.

Today, Holmes the elder came armed with a USB drive, and both of them thoughtlessly usurped John’s laptop. He sighed, excusing himself to brew tea if only to step out during the typical exchange of snippish greetings. Why Mycroft picked a moment when John was visiting, he neither knew nor appreciated, but he so frequently did that John knew it was intentional. Everything about the man was intentional.

When he returned, they rounded on him like a pair of pythons, Mycroft’s face tightening into a smile and pocketing his hands, all his gestures and slightly over-sized suit making him appear older and meaner than he was. Sherlock did no masking, simply hawk-like in focus.

Okay. So they’d found something mutually interesting. Political murder, then. Or something three licks from it.

John cleared his throat, and gestured before taking his chair. “What’s this now?” Thankfully, The British Government preferred to stand.

“Tell me, Doctor, what do you see,” he inquired, angling the screen towards him.

It appeared to be shot from Google Maps, perhaps, above the entire British Isle. Nine small, read dots marked it.

“Well,” he leaned forward and glanced to Sherlock, whose expression had not changed. “It forms an M, doesn’t it?”

Mycroft grinned, tilting his head back in that shaky, self-important manner. “Very good, John.” He pulled out a stack of post-it sized papers, placing them one-by-one on the coffee table before them. “These were locations of murders, murders of people of high importance known to very few officials. Undercover agents, assassins, foreign workers, none of whom had any known connection. They worked on different projects, were killed in different manners …” He rubbed his forehead and sighed. “You get the idea. The only thing linking them were these notes, which were stapled to each. At the moment, this evidence is classified. I am sure, Doctor, that you can respect the sensitivity of this information.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Sherlock batted away as John opened his mouth. He settled for nodding in concurrence. Mycroft grimaced.

“Yes, well then.”

Each note said the same thing; “Give him back.” Some capitalized, some cursive, some with a period, some without, most hardly legible.

“Now, the handwriting matches that of the victim in each case, so we believe the victim was made to write it.” With a sigh, he pulled out one final sheet of paper, unfolding and smoothing it. “This is the list of victims in chronological order. You may notice a signature rather quickly.”

 

 **S** tanley **J** ones

 **E** velyn **M** cFerren

 **B** enedict **O** rman

 **A** drian **R** edley

 **S** ylvia **I** raston

 **T** rever **A** mish

 **I** van **R** eginold

 **A** nna **T** hick

 **N** orbert **Y** en

 

“Oh.” John leaned back. “Grand. Team work.”

“We don’t believe so.” Mycroft tapped his umbrella to the ground. “Sadly, there are no preserved crime scenes,”

“When did these happen?” Sherlock interrupted, picking up a note and drawing his thumb down the side of it before sniffing. “Months, hasn’t it?” He looked up. “Months ago? Months? Why was this not brought to me earlier?”

Mycroft, long-suffering, sighed. “If you had let me finish, you would have known this came to my desk this morning. The imbeciles handling this did not notice what even John could pick up instantaneously, and were treating these as unrelated. Even one as a suicide.”

Sherlock leaned back before springing up. “How do these people make it through the day! Do they just fumble about, hoping for the best?”

“Isn’t that what we do?” John added, taking a sip of tea when Sherlock spun and glared.

Mycroft once again pantomimed amusement (who’s to know if that was the actual feeling). “Yes, well, I’ve believed so. Sherlock, as always, will not listen to reason. As it is, yes, these occurred years ago. During the time in which Moriarty was detained.”

“Pre-emptive orders, then?” John inquired, turning one of the noted over in his hand. “But why would anyone other than Moriarty sign it?”

“But what if this was not an order?” Mycroft hummed to reinforce the question. “What if this was, dare I say, initiative? On one side, the signature,” He drew his finger down the Christian names, “Sebastian. On the other, the demand, J. Moriarty.”

John was silent for a moment, before absorbing. “I simply cannot see anyone desperately wanting him back. Unless this is about the key?” He turned to Sherlock. “Was that ever debunked in his … network?”

Sherlock flapped a dismissive hand, “Yes, yes,” and returned to his window.

“An old enemy, perhaps?” Mycroft suggested. “We only know of one Sebastian connected to our Irish troublemaker.”

A meaningful look was exchanged between the Holmes’, one John was completely left out.

“Oh, great. More post-death correspondence between you two, I suppose?” John grumbled.

Mycroft laughed. “In many ways, yes. Sebastian is dead.”

Sherlock placed his fingers before his mouth and sat down again, speaking softly from the domicile of his thoughts. “Yes, well, as we’ve learned, that’s not a permanent condition.”

“Done anything recently?” John asked.

“Kidnappings, now, actually.” Another sheet of paper. “These people were all kidnapped within the last week, a case I was provided last night, before the given info. No notes this time. I only believe them connected by the S shape formed with location, and the new message encoded in the names.”

 

 **J** ohn **S** alisbury

 **H** enry **H** ossenbach

 **W** endy **E** merson

 **A** ndre **R** osebaum

 **T** heresa **L** ittle

 **S** aul **O** ’Conner

 **O** ctavian **C** restwood

 **N** eville **K** ristenson

 

“Oh god,” John said, running a hand through his hair.

“That’s about the sum of it, yes,” Mycroft admitted as his phone chimed. “One moment.”

There was a silence as Mycroft spent too long frowning at his phone, brows drawn and mouth open, as if it were a broken printer, spitting out things that could not be true. “Pardon, … I think I must go.”

“What does it say?” John asked, but no sooner had Sherlock snatched the phone from his hands. From an unknown number:

 

_Hello, Mycroft. You might want to bring your nosy friends to the Diogenes. Silence is golden, but I swear I didn’t say a word. <3 Things do seem to be piling up around here, though._

 

Sherlock instantly straightened into sterner stuff and John at his side. They plodded down the stairs, piling into Mycroft’s black car soundlessly, not speaking a word as they rolled the odd message around in their heads. The perpetrator? Must be.

Climbing the stairs, nothing seemed out of order, old men drinking peaceably in the front room. Not a repeat of ’71, then.

Regardless, as Mycroft approached his office door, the stink was palpable, a smell John knew too well and loathed. They looked at each other slowly, each as unwilling as the next to confront what they now knew to be true. Helplessly, shaking, Mycroft did the honors, taking his punishment with a certain regality as he opened the door to reveal eight corpses, six piled on top of each other, the lowest one squished like jelly, flattened on the floor and tinged with green. The other two, each of the ladies, were set up in chairs, one leaning, comically slumped on his desk.

A note, neatly folded on top of the pile, was addressed “Holmes”. Naturally, Sherlock snatched it up.

 

_A death in name is no death at all. You’re still owed a fall, all three of you. Consider everyone you’ve ever trusted now a crime scene. They will be._

_His games are over. You’re playing mine now. Ta! <3_

Mycroft tried several times to speak, each failing until finally he could. He dragged a hand down his face, down a beard he didn’t have, and stated slowly, purposely “I think our mistake, brother mine, might’ve been believing Moriarty is the dangerous one.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you want to see it continued. Have a great day! :)


End file.
